


十人十色 ~ different strokes for different folks

by THA_THUMPP



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Big Boss and Venom are One and the Same, Concerts, Cultural Differences, Domesticity, Fiddler!Miller, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, smut in the next chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-27 18:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6295000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kazuhira 'Kaz' Miller is a professional fiddler. It's the year 1974, Japan, and during the reception after his recital he approaches two lawless men: a Westerner who has a questionable love for revolvers, and a 'gentleman' Miller can't quite figure out... Nothing a little alcohol can't fix, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	十人十色 ~ different strokes for different folks

**Author's Note:**

> 十人十色 ~ the literal translation is, "ten people, ten colors." The metaphorical translation is, "different strokes for different folks," or essentially, "every snowflake is different."
> 
> This is BB and V combined \- they are one and the same (forget Mission 46 Truth). BB has a bionic arm since he's a soldier and has been exposed to the battlefield. Also, besides the plot for this down-to-earth two-shot sticking to the theme of war, it is an AU.
> 
> To think, the concept of this fic was originally inspired, last year, by the cubist work, "Violin and Pipe, 'Le Quotidien' (1913)" by Georges Braque, one of the many artists we were studying at the time, and Miller's renowned GZ quote of, "They played us like a damn fiddle!" Then it was because of the DLC announced at TGS '15 featuring BB's MGS3 Tuxedo Costume. Then we ended up completing TPP with shattered views and broken hearts... THEN, we planned on submitting this for International Fanworks Day 2016 in February and somehow missed that, too. Finally, here it is. Enjoy this... whatever this is.

~1974

The restless murmurs of the guests inside the Concert Hall died down like a wave as the Announcer, a native inhabitant of Japan, walked out from behind the red curtains. He was shorter than most men, his hairline receding from age yet still black. He stood before the microphone in the middle of the stage and bowed. It was a polite gesture, and he held it at a perfect ninety-degree angle for at least ten seconds before he straightened his back.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Announcer said to the crowd. Due to his heavy accent, his Ls sounded more like Rs. “I present to you, Mr. Kazuhira Miller.”

One person started to clap. Then two, then five. Pretty soon the whole auditorium was ringing with anticipation.

Behind the curtain, Miller knelt in front of his opened violin case. He was dressed in evening attire: a white dress shirt, the collar two buttons down; beige, high waisted trousers with button-on suspenders of a similar shade. The matching coat was formerly discarded on one of the many backstage chairs, taken off to allow for freer movement. The occasion ahead called for it.

Miller released an anxious sigh and raked a few fingers through his bottle blond hair. Right before a performance, it seemed his hands were always steadier than his nerves. He adjusted the aviator sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose, heedful of its presence. The accessory had once belonged to his father, passed down to him before heading off to fight in World War II.

It was the only thing he had left of him. A memento.

Miller scooped up his instrument from its case, stood, and tucked its wooden body under his arm. When the curtains drew wide he walked onto the stage and into the blare of lights. The glow was so harsh that everything beyond the platform looked like nighttime over the ocean. He could barely see anything past the edge of the rostrum, but as he reached the heart of center stage and bowed, he heard his audience. The coughs, the low murmurs in the darkness.

For a moment his violin felt like lead under his arm, weighted by nervousness and the fear of failure, but he found strength when imagining his parents’ faces in the crowd. Their smiles, their praise. The thought always helped him during his concerts.

Miller closed his eyes, clinging to that image as he straightened his back. Taking a deep breath, he brought his violin up in a wistful motion, tucking the chinrest to where it felt comfortable under his jaw. He paused. Then with his other arm he pressed the bow above the violin’s bridge, on the E string. Again, he paused.

The crowd was now holding its breath. Miller’s own was waiting to be released, the sole bead of sweat rolling over the sharp contours of his brow his countdown. He swallowed when it slipped away, then finally exhaled with his first, hard stroke down.

The sound that came off the violin’s strings spoke of a time of war. It was chaotic and primitive. It painted pictures in his mind, vivid splashes of reds and whites; reds, whites, and blues; the colors of the world, of two countries that _represented_ the world, clashing. The East and West. Japanese to the left of him, Americans to the right. And him in the middle, a byproduct of both lands. To the audience his music may have sounded all folksy and happy, but to Miller he could hear every gunshot, every mother screaming for her child, and a husband crying out for his wife. He could even hear shell casings tumbling from barrels and clattering to the ground, soldiers yelling to one another across the battlefield, and a fighter jet soaring overhead.

Then the bombs dropped.

Miller’s hair began unraveling as he fiddled away on his violin. He felt as frantic as the music he was producing, each sound vibrating through his fingertips and reverberating in his chest as he ground the bow up and down. He couldn’t remember if he let himself breath or not during the rest of his performance. All he knew was that by the end of it he was out of steam; his chest heaving, his arms limp and tingling by his sides, his last note nothing but a faded echo within many ears.

Finally, the concert was over.

The crowd stood clapping, the roar incredible, like a flock of birds taking flight. Miller opened his eyes. The lights that had once obscured his listeners were dimming on, chasing away the preceding darkness and illuminating diverse faces. He started to bow to show his appreciation, but a glimmer from inside the crowd kept him from finishing—a glint of light near the front row. He squinted in hope of finding the source, but lost sight of it among the mass of hands continuing their praise.

Whatever it was, was gone now.

The unrelenting clapping of the audience slowly drew Miller’s attention back to his role, more so the whistling and hollering of the excitable Americans. He shook his head to clear it, then finished his bow before he took his exit, stage left.

Directly after he dismissed himself, other musicians piled-on to the stage. They rearranged a few chairs for themselves, sat down and began to play traditional songs from abroad, on piano and strings.

The doors of the Concert Hall were left ajar, so the guests in the lobby just outside could still hear the music.

Backstage, Miller returned his violin to its case, locked it up, and retrieved his once-discarded coat. One arm after the other he put it on, then dusted at the padded shoulders and straightened the lapel. He fastened the middle button only. He intended to come back before the night ended, so he left his instrument case where it was and slipped out the nearest door to attend the reception. It was being held in the lobby, in the form of an after-party.

Hors d’oeuvres were being passed around on platters, exotic cheeses, as were beverages of champagne, white and red wines. It was very European in style and presentation, to accommodate the guests, the foreign soldiers.

People of many backgrounds walked Miller by as he entered the lobby. Some didn’t recognize him, though those who did stopped and wished to shake his hand. They gave him their best wishes, told them how they felt when listening to his music—no matter how wrongly interpreted—and went on to say how honored they were to meet him. And after what seemed like his twentieth hand Miller took a minute to find a corner for himself next to the grandiose staircase leading to the second story.

For a while he stayed there, observing that which went on around him. The smiles of his guests, the on and off conversations about politics. At some point he grabbed a cool glass of champagne from one of the trays being walked around, but before he could take a sip the Announcer who had introduced him on stage came over to him and whispered in Japanese. Miller listened and silently translated what was being said in his head:

_Have you seen ‘that’ gentleman? He’s wearing an eyepatch. And he doesn’t have a left arm. It’s a bionic. Gold._

Being torn between the West and his home country Japan, Miller had come to abandon his Mother tongue. To him, it was easier to think in terms of the West Germanic lingua franca, the evergrowing Koiné language. “No, I haven’t seen him,” he replied in English. He knew the other man understood. “Where is he?” He watched as the Announcer pointed. Again, he listened:

_Over there. He’s standing to the right of that Westerner. The one wearing a red scarf. It’s a bit flashy, isn’t it? He also has a revolver… Ah, no sorry. He has ‘two’ revolvers._

“Westerner?” Miller perked.

He twisted at the waist and easily saw the man fitting the Announcer’s description. The man was dressed like those Macaroni Western idols Miller had seen in those imported VHS tapes from overseas. Though it was definitely the mentioned ‘flashy red scarf’ tucked into the collar of the trail duster coat that made the man an easy target for gossip. The only thing he was missing was a beaver hat.

“Huh. I see what you mean,” Miller murmured as he dropped his eyes to the revolver on the Westerner’s gun belt next. It looked well-polished, like not a day went by that it wasn’t handled. The other revolver was hiding under the bulk of coat at the back, but the outline was still perceivable through the cloth.

To the right of this man, was this so-called ‘gentleman.’

Who wore bowties anymore? They went out of style, what, after the necktie took over the market in the 1920s? Miller mused to himself. Only Americans wearing dinner suits, he was beginning to think.

Still, this gentleman… he was quite handsome. Caucasian, with brunette hair; a deep-sea blue eye and an eyepatch that matched the darkness of his tuxedo; a well-groomed beard. Pinched between his lips was an imported _Quai d’Orsay_ cigar, the tip lit. There was quite an accumulation of smoke around him, meaning it probably wasn’t his first light of the night. Many of the other attending guests were looking perturbed at him and waving the secondhand smoke away when coming into contact with it.

Having had the pleasure of visiting Europe for one of his international concerts, Miller knew it was customary for upper class citizens to showcase their wealth with their possessions—cigars being one of those items. The customs here in Japan, however, were different.

Protected by his father’s aviator sunglasses, Miller let his eyes explore a little further as he took in more of this gentleman. More specifically, the man’s bionic arm. The patina of it was highly reflective and shimmered like oil in water. It was entrancing, enticing, and Miller couldn’t pull his gaze away from it.

How did the man lose it, he found himself wondering. In an explosion of some kind? Was the arm damaged beyond repair and had to be amputated? Wait. Why was he so infatuated with him—this gentleman? He had seen many soldiers alike in his day, but this one… No. He was different. There was something about him that he couldn’t pin down—what was it?

A commotion interrupted Miller from his thoughts. There was a Waiter creating a scene, repeatedly bowing before the gentleman and his guest, the Westerner.

 _‘Please don’t smoke here,’_ the Waiter was saying over and over again.

The gentleman with the bionic arm didn’t seem to comprehend the language, nor the gesture. The Westerner didn’t either and was the first to grow impatient by the incessant stooping of the Waiter. He drew both of his revolvers, trail duster fluttering briefly in the moment. By the time both gun barrels were pressed against the Waiter’s forehead, the coattail was just settling against the backs of his thighs again.

Many of the surrounding guests paused in their steps when noticing the guns, though some just gasped and moved around the scene.

“Excuse me,” Miller dismissed himself from beside the Announcer.

It wasn’t his place to get involved. They had hired men for such disturbances. But they weren’t bilingual like Miller, which seemed to be the cause of the problem. He would sort them out, he figured, and set his flute of champagne down when he got the chance, on a passing tray, to clear up his hands.

“Mind putting your guns away?” Miller spoke up when a few feet away from the gentleman and Westerner. His arms were open as to not pose a threat. “You’re scaring the guests.”

There was a blood-thirsty spark in the Westerner’s eyes when they met Miller’s, perceivable no matter how pale blue the color. But the look soon melted when the gentleman grunted. The Westerner spared a glance over his right shoulder. He appeared quite snubbed by the guttural demand, yet begrudgingly took a step back and reholstered his revolvers with a theatrical spin.

 _Definitely a Macaroni move_ , Miller commented inwardly.

“You’ll have to excuse my companion. Sometimes he can be a little reckless in his thinking,” the gentleman said. He was unable to see the put-off look the Westerner shot him because of the eyepatch. “Kaz, was it? Kazu… Sorry, I can’t remember.”

“Kazuhira is my family name, which I only use here, in Japan and for performances; a stage name, if you will. My real name is Benedict Miller. _Kaz_ or _Miller_ is fine. I’ve grown accustomed to hearing them both.”

“John,” the gentleman introduced. He left the cigar he was smoking between his lips and extended his bionic arm for a shake.

Miller received the gesture without blinking. “Like John F. Kennedy?”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” John muttered over the cigar as he squeezed Miller’s hand.

“Strong grip,” Miller admired. He was expecting the bionic to be weak, with fingers that would feel like plastic, not metal. “It always amazes me to see how far our artificial intelligence and electromechanics have advanced here in the East.”

“Me, too. The industry here is booming. The East really is ahead of the world,” John said with praise. “In a couple more years, perhaps, the West will catch up to you.”

“I highly doubt it,” Miller said with a small smile.

They kept their hands locked, their gazes solely on each other. It wasn’t until the Westerner made a very firm ‘ahem’ that John and Miller finally let go.

“Adamska,” the Westerner introduced next. “But you can call me Ocelot.” He was quick to add, though he didn’t extend his hand.

But that was all right. If Miller was to be honest, from what he had seen thus far, he didn’t expect Ocelot to.

Instead, Ocelot made a flamboyant ‘stick ‘em up’ kind of gesture with both suede-gloved hands.

“That was some performance, by the way. You’re pretty good. Would’ve really jazzed up the mood of that _Kabuki_ play we saw a few days ago. It was just a bunch of clicks ‘n’ clacks on wood, chanting, and the whole time I watched I just couldn’t figure out what the hell was goin’ on.” Ocelot shrugged. “What was the story? Was it about finding love? War? By the time we hopped on the Myōken Line at Uguisunomori Station, I was still baffled. Nice costumes. Though, if you ask me, the whole prop looked like something straight out of Akira Kurosawa’s, _Throne of Blood_.”

“Plays like those are usually meant for the natives, not foreigners,” Miller defended, his eyes narrowing. Now that he was looking at Ocelot’s face a little harder he realized that the man wasn’t Western by blood, at all. It was only the wardrobe and the rigid accent that reflected such a persona. The name was the man’s true homeland. What was it? Russian?

John’s chuckle pulled Miller’s eyes away from Ocelot. “He’s right, you were pretty damn good. What made you want to play the violin?”

Miller thought for a moment.

“Being heavily influenced by America, my father urged me to take up the acoustic guitar, but I rebelled. Boys and their fathers – you know how it is. You want to please them, but at the same time you want to pave your own future, and not live their dreams for them. It was then that I decided that if I could pursue any instrument, it would be the violin. Though, to be honest, I did it more for my mother’s sake. Being a foreigner herself she was a big fan of Enka, and it was what I grew up with: the memory of her sitting by the window and listening to the music on the radio. Whenever I’d play, she would was always compare the sound the violin made to the wailing voice of an Enka singer. It made her happy, and if she was happy, I was happy.”

Miller adjusted his aviator sunglasses at the sentiment. Another moment passed.

“My father though, he remained indifferent and after I would get done practicing on my violin he would always tell me that I was tone deaf on that thing, that I wouldn’t amount to anything, that I should play the guitar instead. He said anyone could play the guitar – that it was easy. Every time he would try to put my spirits down, to kill my inspiration, but I could see through his veil. ‘Tough love,’ was what it was, a deterrent. He was trying to discourage me, put me down, so I would build up, get stronger, more passionate. The proud smile he wore on his face was what gave him away, and I would see it more and more the better I became. ‘One more year of this, just one more, and then I’ll try my hand at the guitar,’ I kept telling myself whenever I’d see that smile of his, no matter how faint. After he died, however, I just couldn’t pick it up… so I stuck with the violin. The song you heard tonight was actually a piece I wrote for him – a tribute. You call it ‘music,’ I call it ‘panic.’”

“Fascinating,” was John’s response.

“Nice shades,” Ocelot couldn’t help but notice the antic Miller had made earlier, the adjustment. His face was quizzical as he motioned around the lobby with opened arms. “But there’s no sun above us, no unbearable light you need to worry about protecting your eyes from. We’re inside. Why wear them? Unless…” His voice dithered. “You blind?”

Even though it was Ocelot who asked, John stared at Miller like he too was curious of the answer.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Miller said. He let his words settle momentarily, then reached up and tipped his aviators down to look between both men to show he was joking. “It seems I left my walking stick backstage.”

John and Ocelot got a chuckle out of him.

“No. I just have light-sensitive eyes,” Miller rectified before using a very precise finger to push his sunglasses back up his nose. “My father piloted a Kawanishi N1K1 Kyofu ‘Rex’ during the early years of what we now know today as ‘World War II.’ They were his. A memento now, but a gift then.”

“Quite a history you’ve got,” Ocelot hummed. “Native father, foreign mother… That would make you, what, a half-caste, then?” He eyed Miller’s head of hair. “Huh. I’m guessing she was blonde – your mom? What is it that they’re always saying,” he was referring to society and its anecdotes, “Daughters look more like their fathers, sons their mothers? How the genetic cookie crumbles.”

Miller smiled stiffly at the observation. For a brief moment he was reminded about his childhood and the teasing he had undergone because of his appearance. The kids in his past had been as bad as the grownups, the belittlement he received for being different haunting. He and Ocelot, they were complete strangers and yet they were already on the verge of fighting like Kilkenny cats. How old-world.

“Words wound like bullets. So I’d appreciate it if you stopped shooting off your mouth like a gun,” Miller said.

“Every gun makes its own tune, ‘Kaz.’ Just like a violin, and any other instrument, whether it’s used for pleasure or war,” said Ocelot.

The air suddenly grew very heavy between them, and it wasn’t because of the smoke from John’s cigar still being puffed.

Aware of the tension, John looked between his partner for the evening, then Miller. “It’s late,” he said to Ocelot. “Why don’t we call it a night?”

Ocelot and Miller didn’t take their eyes off one another, so John took it upon himself to end their standoff. He put his arm between them, the bionic offered to Miller once again.

“Thank you for your time. Arigatō.”

“—gozaimasu.” Miller added quickly as he accepted John’s bionic hand for a leave-taking shake.

“What?” John asked, letting go.

“You would add ‘gozaimasu’ to the end of your sentence,” Miller elaborated. “You don’t know me well enough to leave it out. Culturally, it’s considered rude.”

John snorted, upsetting some ash from the head of his cigar—an item that seemingly never left his mouth. He tucked his chin and brushed at whatever remnants had sprinkled onto his tuxedo’s lapel. “Would it be rude of me if I said I’d like to get to know you better?” He stopped brushing. The long, heavy lashes of his left eye fluttered briefly when he glanced up at Miller.

Miller, on the other hand, gave John a peculiar look, like there was suddenly a language barrier between them.

“Get a room,” Ocelot said with a sour expression, eyes rolling to the high ceiling above.

“Only if you join us, Adam. Three’s a company,” John leered over his right shoulder. Even though he was blinded by the eyepatch on that side, he was still sensitive to Ocelot’s presence.

“I thought three was a _crowd,_ John?”

“Depends on the host.”

There was something between them with the way they spoke to one another, Miller noticed as he observed their relaxed body language and casual tones. Were they more than just friends?

“Why not?” Miller said, more for John’s sake than Ocelot’s. Although a drink would be nice, seeing as he didn’t get to take a sip from his champagne earlier. “My hotel suite is just across the street. If you’re serious, that is.”

The three fell quiet in contemplation.

“Fine,” it was Ocelot who surprisingly spoke up first, shrugging. “If you think you want trouble…” His mustache of fifty gray shades hid a smile only John found charming. “Then let fly.”

**Author's Note:**

> We were originally going to write the Announcer's and Waiter's dialogue in hiragana and kanji (a nod to how you need a translator in-game in order to understand foreign tongues when you interrogate soldiers), but we didn't know if it would be frustrating for you readers to be looking at symbols you didn't understand. So, in the end, we simply decided to write it in English and imply that the native inhabitants were speaking Japanese with the italics. Language plays a role in this fic, as does cultural differences and curiosities, so below we have included what it would have looked like, if you're interested... Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Translations:  
> * あの方を見ましたか. 眼帯をしています. そして, 左の腕がありません. バイオニックです. ゴールドです. ~ Have you seen 'that' gentleman? He's wearing an eyepatch. And he doesn't have a left arm. It's a bionic. Gold.  
> * あそこです. あの外人の右に立っています. 赤いスカーフをしています. ちょっと派手ですね. リボルバーもあります… ああ、いいえ. リボルバーが二つありますよ. ~ Over there. He's standing to the right of that Westerner. The one wearing a red scarf. It's a bit flashy, isn't it? He also has a revolver... Ah, no sorry. He has 'two' revolvers.  
> * ここでタバコをすわないで下さい. ~ Please don't smoke here.  
> * ありがとう (informal) / ありがとうございます (formal) ~ Thank you; one is just more polite than the other.


End file.
